Free Southern Discomfort by Margaret Maron

DeGraffenried was back behind the prosecutor's table.
    First up was a DWI revoked license and I gave him ninety days of active jail time. Even though it was my toughest sentence yet, I didn't give it a second thought. His daddy owns the largest building supply business between Raleigh and Wilmington, and I guess it was daddy's money paying for the services of Zack Young to defend him.
    Zack's probably the best attorney in Colleton County, but I'd seen his client in this particular courtroom a lot of mornings over the last three years since he got his driver's license and I knew he'd had the benefit of doubt extended to him more times than one.
    Zack gave notice of appeal and asked for bail.
    I looked to Cyl, who stood and said, "Your Honor, he's only nineteen; he can't even buy beer legally, yet this is his fourth DWI. If you'll look at his record, you'll see that not only does he drink, he just will
not
stay off the road when he's drinking. So far, he hasn't killed anyone, but by the law of averages, he's overdue. The state recommends that bail be denied on the grounds that he does pose a danger both to himself and to the community."
    For once I thoroughly agreed with her. "But we can't deny bail," I said before Zack could protest. "So how about we make this a half-million cash bond?"
    Zack bolted upright. "
Cash
bond? Your Honor, my client's father may own Tri-County Supply, but even he can't raise that kind of cash money at the snap of his fingers."
    "Good," I said. "Bailiff, take the defendant into custody."
    Three rows back, a fortyish woman in a designer black-and-white polished cotton and white jade necklace rose with a devastated face as Zack came down the aisle to her. They went out together with Zack patting her shoulder.
    Mrs. Tri-County Supply. But under the expensive dress and jewelry, a mother too, it would seem.
*      *      *
    We briskly disposed of the rest of the calendar before lunch and I was about to adjourn for the day when a Mexican hurried up to Doug from the back of the room, waving a shiny plastic card. His English was so poor that Doug couldn't understand what he was saying, nor why he kept waving the card toward me.
    It was the bailiff who finally recognized him. "Tuesday," he reminded me. "Driving without a valid license. You gave him till today to bring you a North Carolina license."
    "Jaime Ramiro Chavez," said the preacher. "The man you were never going to forget."
    "Welcome to the bench, Judge Knott," said the pragmatist.

CHAPTER 5
LOAD-BEARING MEMBERS
    "Load-bearing structural members support and transfer the loads on the structure while remaining in equilibrium with each other."
    In my teens, Friday nights were TGIF necking at the only drive-in left in Colleton County, hotdogs with slaw and chili at the Tastee-Freez afterwards, and cruising Cotton Grove in an endless looping traffic jam of open convertibles and loaded pickup trucks, every radio blasting—R&R going head-to-head with the Okie from Muskogee.
    All through my twenties, except for the times I lived off, winter Friday nights were dinner dates and dancing at one of the Raleigh clubs; in summer, they were often the beginning of lazy weekends spent shagging at the beach, before everybody drifted off and got married or settled into "meaningful relationships."
    Now that I'm in my thirties, a lot of the people I used to party with are back single again, only this time we all have so many strings attached, partying is almost more effort than its worth.
    Terry Wilson had called me earlier in the week. His fifteen-year-old son, Stanton, was in a summertime baseball league and they were scheduled to take on the Dobbs team Friday night. Did I want to watch?
    "Sure," I said. Terry and I go back a ways and I've known Stanton since he was six and Terry used to get him for the weekends. Terry's been married and divorced again since then. As an SBI agent, he was working narcotics undercover at the time. Hell on marriages. On Friday I